


Fancy-Pants Dad's Got a Dark Side

by CasBruell



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Adultery, But He's Still a Cannibal, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Guilt, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is Abigail's Father, Hannibal is Mostly Good, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Regret, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unstable Will, Will is Hungry, William's Father is Abusive, Worried Hannibal, eventual Dark Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-12-05 18:10:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11583474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasBruell/pseuds/CasBruell
Summary: "hey papa, can I bring over a friend after school?"A small spark of suspicion went through him. She said "a friend", she didn't say any of her friends' names.He typed back, "What are you doing texting during school, Abigail?"Her response was almost immediate."Lunch period"Right after receiving the text Abigail also sent a photo, and he saw her sitting at a table with her friends, their lunches out and grinning into the phone's camera. Well then."Who is this friend?" He asked, wanting to get to the point.Or, Hannibal is a single parent who takes an indecent interest in his daughter's new friend, an anxious boy named William Graham who loves his cooking and enjoys his company even more. But unbeknownst to Will, the fancy-pants father of his classmate and only friend has malicious intentions for the person who put bruises on his body and keeps his belly empty.





	1. The Hungry Pup; Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this story came to me while laying in bed waiting for sleeping pills to kick in. I'm not 100% certain where this will go, but we'll see.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal meets young Will and a short look at Abigail's friends.

 

Being a single parent was challenging, but Hannibal was lucky enough to have only had one child to care for.

Abigail was a bright girl, good grades, stayed out of trouble. She tended to make good choices and had a healthy amount of friends. She also had an appreciation for the arts, fine literature, and of course, an impressive way in the kitchen. Not as skilled as her father, mind you, but she was most definitely the most competent student in the weekend cooking classes he put her in.

However, Abigail also had her quirks. She was quite excitable and more than a little manipulative when she wanted something. Although most of her attempts fell short of tricking a renowned psychiatrist like her father, he allowed her the occasional victory under the right circumstances. But some things were simply not up for discussion. Tidying up before guests arrive, phone off by 10pm, finish everything on your plate, give an hour's warning before inviting friends over, no swearing in the house, the important things.

Hannibal had met all of Abigail's _'friends',_ and he had a good memory log of each one's history with his daughter, as well.

Emily Ring, the chatty sleepover friend who had a habit of tracking cat hair into the house on her clothes. She also wrote the most fanfiction. She had soiled her pants during a sleepover when Abigail and her were children. She was African-American with two charming black mothers and an older sister who graduated from college one year prior.

Henry Ashton, the transgender boy who liked to sing and watch film and game theories, and talk about those theories at every given opportunity as if he wrote them. He took Abigail to her junior prom after her " _boyfriend_ " at the time broke up with her, but they only stayed for half an hour and left to get Chinese food. He was Asian-American, with a mother from Korea and a Caucasian father.

Cassie Langerman, the intelligent and glasses-wearing friend that paid too much attention to any and all classes featuring the human body and its functions. She once told Hannibal all about a disease she was studying called Kuru, an illness apparently acquired from consuming human brains, and that some modern humans gained an evolutionary immunity to the sickness from their pasts of eating each other. He found the information quite... useful. She was Caucasian and an only child.

And finally, Alicia Wimble, the Caucasian mom-friend of the group who liked Starbucks, fuzzy boots, and Yoga, and drove her mother's minivan. During the summer she would pick up Abigail and the rest of her friends and whisk them away for the entire afternoon, either playing mini golf, going to the movies, what have you. She was Caucasian with a single mother and a younger brother who was a freshman at Abigail's school.

These four were the friends that Hannibal heard about on a daily basis. Abigail went on for who knows how long about their antics and the apparently funny things they do during school or on their group chat discussions. He respected the kids, he could tell they were good to Abigail and that they wouldn't do anything to hurt her. Lucky for them, it would be quite messy to explain to the police that the teens had come over for a sleepover and " _never arrived_ ".

Abigail occasionally mentioned a few other friends, but Hannibal suspected that they were more likely to be mutually tolerant classmates who happened to know each other's names. 

Today, Hannibal was reading a book in the living room when he heard his phone vibrate on the table beside him. He slid a bookmark into the spine and set the book down before picking up the phone. It was a text from Abigail.

_"hey papa, can I bring over a friend after school?"_  

 A small spark of suspicion went through him. She said "a friend", she didn't say any of her friends' names.

He typed back, _"What are you doing texting during school, Abigail?"_

Her response was almost immediate. 

" _Lunch period"_

Right after receiving the text Abigail also sent a photo, and he saw her sitting at a table with her friends, their lunches out and grinning into the phone's camera. Henry had his face down into the crook of his arm while the other was straight out in the opposite direction, making him appear to be in mid-sneeze. Well then.

_"Who is this friend?"_ He asked, wanting to get to the point.

_"A guy in my AML class"_

_"Plz papa, I'll explain 2nite"_

Well then, that certainly made him suspicious. Abigail only had Henry, Cassie, Emily, and Alicia over, and her lack of an explanation was peculiar. He thought on it for a few minutes, then texted his reply. Hopefully this was not another crush of hers, it was so tiring to  chase off the last one.

_"Alright, you may bring him home. But I want an explanation when you do."_  

_"thx papa see you later :)"_

With that Hannibal put his phone down and picked up his book again, resuming where he left off.

* * *

When Abigail arrived at the house at her routine time, roughly 3:00 in the afternoon, Hannibal had a plate of cookies cooling in the kitchen for her and her... 'friend', to enjoy. Abigail made a beeline for her father as he stood in the kitchen, his hands clasped in front of him and posture tall, and she gave him an affectionate hug before sticking a warm peanut butter cookie in her mouth.

"How was school, Abigail?" Hannibal asked as he always did. 

She chewed and swallowed before answering. Good girl. "Nothing to report, just a lot of study periods."

He noticed that her 'friend' was not in the kitchen with her, and his lips tightened just a little. Hopefully he wasn't poking around or smoking on his property. That would be quite rude.

"Where is your friend?" Hannibal asked calmly.

Abigail looked behind herself and frowned. "Oh, I thought he followed me."

She turned and walked back towards the front door. Hannibal could hear her talking to someone and telling them to just put their shoes on the rack with the others, and to set down their backpack next to hers. He waited for a moment, then watched her return to the kitchen. Behind her trailed an average height boy with long, unkempt, dark, curly hair and big glasses. He was wearing a worn-down flannel and jeans, the shirt's collar buttoned up over his throat and his hands shoved anxiously into his pockets.

"Papa, this is William." Abigail introduced him in a noticeably gentle tone. "He sits next to me in American Lit. Will," She regarded the nervous-looking boy, "this is my father."

William's lips pursed for a moment and he stepped closer to Hannibal, extending his hand. Hannibal counted three bulky bracelets on his wrist that covered the flesh well. He took the thinner hand and shook it firmly, giving him a polite smile.

"Hello William. I'm pleased to have you in my home." Hannibal said pleasantly. 

Will seemed to swallow and couldn't make eye contact, instead fixing his gaze on Hannibal's tie. He nodded in response and retreated behind Abigail, who placed a hand on his back and patted it softly. Hannibal made a mental note of the way they interacted, how Abigail treated the gaunt teen like he was delicate and how he bristled when Hannibal moved or spoke. 

"You should try these cookies," Abigail motioned to the plate, "my father's an amazing cook. Like, seriously, he's _GR_ good."

Will wet his lips, a motion Hannibal found himself wishing he'd repeat, and glanced in his direction for some kind of verdict.

"Please, help yourselves. I baked these for you." Hannibal said to them. Will seemed to relax just a little and took a peanut butter cookie with brown sugar, nibbling on it with the uncertainty of someone who never experienced peanut butter cookies before.

He got about halfway through the cookie before Abigail asked him how it was. Will stiffened and swallowed what was in his mouth.

"It's good." He muttered.

However, Hannibal could see right through his attempt at being a polite guest with no complaints. While Abigail took a seat at the counter with Will, Hannibal put his hands on it and leaned forward a little to take some pressure off of his heels. He needed new inserts for his shoes, they were starting to feel like hard rubber.

"It's perfectly alright to be honest, William." He said smoothly. "Every good chef must accept criticism to become even better. If there's something you're dissatisfied with, please, I'd love to hear it."

 Hannibal knew perfectly well that his cookies were perfect, but he still felt the importance to ask Will for his honest opinion. He could tell that the boy didn't get to express it often and he wanted to make a connection with him, to help William realize that he was not someone to be feared.

 Will hesitated, but eventually glanced away. He really didn't like eye contact.

 "No, er, it's nothing like that." He said, his voice a bit scratchy and tired. "I... just don't like peanut butter."

 Ah. Hannibal smiled a little. "And there's nothing wrong with that, either."

Will ended up giving the rest of the cookie to Abigail, who scarfed it down without second thought.

* * *

 It wasn't until Will left that Hannibal sat down with his daughter to discuss why she invited him over, and what she had to 'explain' to him. They did so after a delicious dinner that the boy denied to stay for, stating that he _really_ needed to get home. Hannibal had observed from the window that the boy threw down a battered skateboard and pushed off towards town. But when the breeze took the tail of his flannel, Hannibal could have sworn he saw a deep purple blemish on the boy's back.

After the dishes were scrubbed and placed in the washer to run, the two took to the living room, Hannibal in his favorite chair and Abigail plopping down on the sofa across from him. First she shrugged off her cardigan and used it as a pillow for her back. They really did need a new couch; theirs was quite firm and uncomfortable, but they'd had it for a long time, so neither really thought to forego complaining about it and actually replacing it.

 "So," Hannibal started, crossing his left leg over the right with his hands in his lap comfortably, "what is there to explain to me about William? You've never mentioned him before."

His daughter sighed out quietly through ballooned cheeks. "He sits next to me in class, I told you that." She unclipped a white cloud from her hair, allowing her bangs to fall freely across her forehead. She placed the hair clip on the coffee table.

"Well, he's always been kind of jumpy. Doesn't really talk to a lot of people, the socially anxious type. Henry has a bit of a crush on him, though, so a few days ago during lunch he went over to talk to him, finally. We've been teasing him forever about it. But he came back and said that Will didn't have any food and asked us to spare some change so he could buy lunch for him. We all gave some pocket money that we usually keep for drinks, Henry bought the food for Will, and it was all good. But after that we noticed that he never had anything for lunch, so we kept using our drink money to buy him food."

 During her story Abigail stretched her arms over her head and carded her fingers through her hair.

"Today Henry told us that Will said his mom went out of state for a while and that his dad didn't grocery shop at all without her, so I thought we could have Will over for dinner, you know, make sure he eats well for once?" She frowned. "I hear his stomach growling all the time, papa, it worries me."

Hannibal noted how thin and anxious the boy looked and nodded in understanding. "I'm proud of you, Abigail," he regarded her fondly, "you've done something very thoughtful and selfless. I can feel that William is having a rough time, so you may invite him over anytime he seems like he may need it."

He smiled a little at her. She smiled back. "Do you remember what we say about hunger, Abigail?"

"You can't build a peaceful world on hungry stomachs and human misery." She quoted matter-of-factly.

"That's exactly right." He said, a paternal pride rumbling within his heart.

Abigail soon stood up and slung her cardigan over her shoulder, ready to retreat to her room, but Hannibal stopped her on the way to the stairs.

"Abigail?" 

"Mm?"

"Who is _'GR'?"_

Abigail crackled a grin and bent over the side of his chair to give him a one-armed hug.

"Gordon Ramsay, papa."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok- here's the deal. I want to continue this story, but to do so I'll have to tweak the overall plot a bit and put up some new archive warnings. The next chapter will feature a timeskip, because the Gods only know that I have nothing at all that I can think of as a direct continuation.


	2. Mini Chapter, The Cannibal's Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which Hannibal's feelings about Will are apparent, and a glimpse into Will's morning routine.
> 
> I knew that if I didn't make this then the story wouldn't have been continued, so please, bear with me. I'm going through some difficult times right now so I apologise if my writing is less than sufficient.

Will was already awake when his dad pounded on his door for him to get up.

 

He called back a 'yeah' in response and rolled out of bed, sitting on the edge and stretching his arms out with a yawn. His belly immediately gurgled but he ignored it, instead entering MeTube on his cracked phone and putting on a song to wake up to.

 

So, with the melted gold vocals of Stuart "2D" Pot drawling from his nightstand, Will stood up and shuffled out of the boxer briefs he slept in and dropped them into his laundry hamper. He cycled through his dresser and stepped into the last pair of clean boxers he had, followed by a random pair of jeans on the floor, pulled a cotton tee-shirt over his head, and buttoned up the same flannel he wore every day.

 

While he fingered around to pull his toes out of the hole in his sock he murmured along to the lyrics of his current favourite song.

 

_"Your rhinestone eyes are like factories far away"_ He mimicked 2D's gorgeous singing voice as best he could, but even Will's raspy vocals couldn't compare to the fictional bluenette's.

 

After his sneakers were tied up and his dandruff-speckled glasses were on his face, Will shut off the song and shoved his phone into his pocket. He could smell the eggs and bacon wafting in from the kitchen, but he clasped his watering mouth shut and shouldered his backpack.

 

On his way out he poked his head into the living room, where his father sat in his recliner with a plate of delicious breakfast in his lap. Will had long since gotten used to the feeling of hunger cramps, but the smell of the greasy food so close to him caused his head to feel light and his mouth to become dry and stale.

 

"I'm going," he reported.

 

His father, a balding man with round glasses and a shorter build, grunted in response and broke the yolk of his eggs with a piece of bacon. He proceeded to dip the chewy meat into the liquid gold and took a bite. Will tried to stop himself from staring but his belly growled loudly in protest of the days between decent meals he was allowed. He licked his chapped, scabby lips, and his father glanced up at him with a scowl on his face.

 

"Pass that history test tomorrow." He said curtly.

 

With a goal presented to him Will nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, I will. Thanks. See you tonight." After bidding the pig farewell he clipped his keys to his pants and exited the house. Once outside he threw down his thrashed longboard and kicked off, heading down the street and around the corner towards the bus stop. He tapped his hand against his thigh as he went with another Gorillaz song filling his ears, this one a random one from his recommended bar.

 

As he pulled over to his stop he added " _Saturnz Barz"_ to his main playlist before making a new one for the song alone, titling it " _Saturnz Repeat",_ and he set it on a loop as he picked up his longboard and climbed the steps into the school bus.

 

When he took his usual seat in the second seat to the front, he took a moment to secure his board to the straps of his backpack and set it down at his feet. For a moment he scrolled through his text messages with Dr. Lecter, and he considered sending one to bid him good morning, but he thought better of it and looked out the window instead.

* * *

 

Hannibal was not  _interested_ in William Graham. Not at all. Sure, he would ask his daughter how the gaunt lad was doing, gave her leftovers to take to him for lunch, extended numerous invitations to dinner through Abigail, and  _sure,_ he once drove the boy home on a rainy night after he was stranded at Hannibal's house with a broken longboard, and he hung around the neighbourhood and mapped it out in his mind for later convenience, but that didn't mean anything. Not at all.

 

He was just... concerned about him. That's all.

 

It didn't take many more short-lived visits for Hannibal to piece together that William lived in an abusive household. He was nervous and quiet and  _really_ hated eye contact, which at first glance might come across as just being jumpy, but Hannibal could tell there was more to the story than that. Yes, the boy was a nervous character, but he also had a cement fear of people. Men, in particular, within Hannibal's age group. He was afraid of father figures.

 

Hannibal was one-hundred percent certain that Will was mistreated at home by his father, and the fact heated the blood in his veins to a boil.

 

From the limited interactions he had with Will, Hannibal figured out what particular types of abuse Will was going through. Verbal mostly, lots and lots of verbal beat-downs that left the boy trembling and afraid to speak his mind, if at all. It tied in to his hatred of eye-contact, as well, not unlike a child being unable to look an adult in the eye while being scolded for wrongdoing, but Will faced this every day at probably every interaction he had with his father.

 

He wasn't being sexually abused, at least not that was obvious. Will may have reservations, but he didn't recoil at the slightest of touches or lack thereof. His demeanour would have been much different if he was being molested or raped by his father.

 

With that being said, Will  _was_ being beaten. He was very cautious and fixed his gaze on anybody that moved even the smallest amount, as if he was expecting to be struck at any time for any reason. Hannibal often had to reassure the boy that he wasn't angry with him, which did ease him a little, but the poor lad never truly relaxed even in safe, polite company.

 

Finally, there was the  _starvation._ This made Hannibal see red. Jonathan Graham, a professor and British philosopher, was purposefully starving his son, perhaps in order to control Will or to watch him waste away and suffer. Even the thought of people- anywhere, of any kind- going hungry, made him sick to his stomach. Nobody should ever have to feel that terrifying and agonising pain of literally deteriorating day by day, bit by bit, muscle by muscle, until they were skin and bones. It should have been the most prominent instinct in a parent to prevent their child from being hungry at all costs, but some do it  _on purpose._

For that, Hannibal had cleared a space in his basement freezer and set to work sharpening his knives. He was preparing for a feast, but before he could hunt, he needed the most important tool of all. A partner.

 

Hannibal Lecter was not  _interested_ in William Graham.

He was quickly growing  _obsessed_ with him.


	3. Mini Chapter, The Pup's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another short peek into Will's life at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, this is very short, I know. Bear with me, I'm trying to stay on track with this while balancing a lot in my personal life, so chapters are short for now. I'm sorry.

It was so frustrating for Hannibal that his daughter never left him alone with Will.

 

 

He knew she was just worried and trying to be considerate of the boy's vulnerability, but honestly. She was almost  _too_ good of a friend to young William. He wanted- no, he  _needed_ the opportunity to talk to Will alone for his plan to be set in motion, but his own daughter was acting as an oblivious obstacle in his path. Had she been anybody else he would have only had minor reservations about... taking care of the issue, but Abigail was his little girl. He'd never do anything to (intentionally) hurt her.

 

With that being said, he missed being able to do things more freely, like he could before she was born. He could hunt and cook whatever- or, actually,  _who_ ever he wanted- without the cautious precautions he needed to take so that his daughter wouldn't find him in the basement and effectively scar her for life. But now he was doomed to play a domestic facade, one that occasionally got infuriating when his hunger grew harder to satisfy, people grew ruder and cruder, and his daughter got older and more invasive, not to mention intelligent.

 

Hannibal sighed out through his nose, his gaze straight ahead but not really paying the most attention to the patient sitting across from him. Rhonda Micheal had been spouting off about herself and her sob story for nearly an hour and twenty minutes, and Hannibal had more important things to think about than her divorce, custody battle, fake breast cancer attention grab, any of it.

 

He'd much rather think about how to get Will alone without it being suspicious to Abigail. Perhaps it was time to get in touch with his ex-wife, Abigail's mother.

* * *

He was expecting the slap, he'd had a million of them in the past. But that didn't keep them from hurting any less when he received them. Will grabbed handfuls of his jeans and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. It was all he could do to keep from getting angry. Or worse, crying. Crying  _always_  made it worse. He stared down at his feet as the heat from the strike radiated in his right cheek, the skin flushing a deep red colour. He knew that it'd be purple in the morning.

 

"What the hell is this?" His father snarled, dangling a piece of paper in front of Will's face, "I told you to pass, not completely fuck up."

 

Will couldn't speak. His throat was dry and tight, and the painful throbs in his belly didn't help matters. He bit his lip, chewed the skin, peeled it away with his teeth and felt the twinge of pain as a copper taste drizzled his tongue.

 

_"I didn't fuck up,"_ Will thought to himself,  _"I got a C+, that's still passing."_

"I thought you were motivated, William. Obviously you don't care enough to give it real effort."

 

_"I do care,"_ His throat winked and he tried to swallow the croak.

 

"Got nothing to say?" His father snarled. "I guess that means I'm right, and you didn't earn back your privileges." 

 

_Privileges._ As if the right to eat and not starve to death was something Will had to physically work for, only to be denied by one of the people who brought him into existence.

 

_"I did earn it,"_ He shut his eyes to try to keep the tears at bay,  _"It's been so long, why won't you let me eat? It's been over a week, it hurts, dad, why do you wan't me to hurt? What did I do wrong? Why don't you love me anymore?"_

He was snapped out of his thoughts when his dad grabbed his face roughly and forced Will to look him in the eyes. God fucking damn it, he  _hated_ this part.

 

"Get in the fucking car, boy."


	4. Mini Chapter, The Sporty Uncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, another short and punchy chapter. I'm sorry.

Will's mom died a few years ago when he was in middle school. Will thought about her often, namely the way she passed away, but he wouldn't go so far as to say he particularly missed her.

 

He remembered the way she styled her straight blonde hair. She wore it semi-short and it framed her face, the length covering her ears. She was short, as is his father, so he suspected he got his height from a distant relative rather than his parents. Perhaps the grandparents he never met, or the uncle who committed suicide before he was born. He sometimes saw old photos of the guy when he snooped through the albums that his mother kept in the attic.

 

His uncle was a sporty fellow named Freddie, according to the cursive labels on the back of the old tabloids and the copious amounts of toys and sports gear he could be seen playing with. Will couldn't put his finger on why, but he felt a certain connection with Freddie, or at least the buried memories of him. Maybe it was that the two of them were unhappy with their families and social lives in general, or that Freddie had actually gone through with his suicidal plans, whereas Will kept them at the back of his mind and mulled over the "what-ifs" like a coward.

 

He wondered if Freddie ever snooped through his parents' belongings. What kind of stuff could he have found if he did? What secrets did a couple 1930's people keep in their pockets?

 

Will typically thought of his lost uncle when he felt more depressed than usual. On those days he could hardly find the motivation to roll out of bed, but he was forced to get up, get dressed, brush his teeth, and go to school and pretend that everything was fine. That he didn't have a permanent stabbing pain in his abdomen. That the bruises quickly spreading across his body were from doors and trees and falling off of his longboard instead of flailing fists.

 

On those days he doodled in his spiral notebook and asked himself,  _what would Freddie have done if his life was like this?_

And his answer was always the same. Freddie would have done it already. 

* * *

Hannibal was getting worried.

 

Well, more worried, actually. Abigail mentioned that Will stopped talking to her or her friends and moved his seat to the back of the classroom. He disappeared during lunch period. He stopped raising his hand. Even the littlest interaction could send him into a mood.

 

It was with a calm demeanour that he climbed into his car after Abigail's mother picked her up for the weekend and revved up his engine. He turned up the classical jazz CD he received in a raffle years ago and pulled out of his driveway, his phone nestled in the cup holder and his eyes glued to the road. The Chesapeake night was bitter and cold. He turned up the heat and warmed his hands over the vents at a red light.

 

Hannibal couldn't stave the apprehensive pit in his belly when Abigail had mentioned that Will was absent from school for two days, only to return a changed man. During those two days Hannibal hadn't known he was gone, but had he been aware he might have feared the worst. He'd worked with suicidal people in his many years as a psychiatrist, but so far he had always succeeded in helping them get the resources and help they needed to live their lives. As far as he was aware he hadn't lost a patient (unintentionally, that is).

 

He checked the dot on his phone's GPS and sighed in relief. It was still stationed at the bar downtown; he had all the time in the world.

 

It only took the elder a few minutes to pull to a stop on the street across from his destination. He grabbed the backpack from the passenger seat, secured his vehicle, and crossed the darkened road towards the house. The outside looked plain with the house painted a dark grey, which matched the one directly next door, though the neighbour's sidewalk was also painted a strange lighter grey and looked rather smooth, almost like rubber, whereas the rest of the ground was stone and pavement.

 

Hannibal strolled along the walkway, being far too polite to tread on the grass, and he immediately picked up the faint sound of a television inside the home. He thought better than to use the doorbell and instead rapped his knuckles against the thick lightly coloured wood.

 

There was a shuffling sound from inside, accompanied by a "thud" and a loud swear, but soon enough the door opened and he saw Will standing there absently rubbing his thigh. The boy's brows furrowed immediately upon realising that Hannibal was on his doorstep.

 

"Er... Mr. Lecter?" He asked uncertainly. 

 

"Good evening, William." Hannibal returned with a fond smile. "Forgive me for dropping in unexpected, but you left your backpack behind at my home." He held up the semi-heavy bag for emphasis.

 

Will let out an "ohh" and took the backpack from the blonde, only to drop it next to the door without care. "Thanks, sorry, I shouldn't have forgotten it."

 

Hannibal just gave him a small and slow nod to assure him that it was quite alright. After a few moments of silence Will rubbed the back of his neck and glanced back into the home.

 

"Uh... Do you wanna come in?"

 

"I would like that very much, William."

 

Will stepped aside to allow the elder into the house and closed the door behind him. Hannibal mentally catalogued the interior of his residence. It was pretty tidy aside from a few empty glasses on the table beside the couch and a cluttered dining room table. Hannibal assumed that the hallway to his left lead to the bedrooms and restroom, and to the right was the garage and kitchen. It was a small house.

 

The pair moved to the living room, Will sitting down on the right half of the split love seat that faced the TV, and Hannibal took to the couch close to him. He crossed one leg over the other and placed his interlocked hands in his lap. 

 

"I must admit, William, there is another reason I came to see you tonight."

 

The boy bit his lip. "Why's that?"

 

"We need to have a talk about your father." Hannibal's eyes gleamed with seriousness but also a soft edge of sympathy. "How long has he been strangling you?"


	5. Mini Chapter, Ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm doing my best.

Will was gobsmacked at Mr. Lecter's question. He immediately scowled at him, looking disgusted, and instinctively made sure the collar of his shirt was tight.

 

"He doesn't," he sputters, "why the hell would you even... what the fuck?"

 

He normally would have been instantly regretful of cursing to an elder, but under the circumstances it seemed appropriate. Who did Mr. Lecter think he was? Coming to his home and accusing his father of... Argh, fuck, this whole thing was fucked.

 

"William, there is no point in protecting him. I know what he's been doing to you and I want to help, but you need to let me help." The exotic man said smoothly, his deep lilt sending chills up Will's spine. He hated how alluring his voice sounded, how he wanted to follow it wherever it may lead him, consequences be damned.

 

Will said nothing- how could he? All he could do was sit there and self-consciously rub his sore neck, trying not to think about a few days earlier when he had that fight with his father. It ended the same way all of their arguments did, but Will found himself hoping this time that things had actually _ended_ this time. Why did he have to wake up? Why did he have to come back to this world, to this house, to this _family?_

Hannibal offered him a handkerchief, so Will must have been crying. He took the cloth from the psychiatrist and dabbed at his eyes with it, taking deep breaths, trying to keep a lid on his emotions.

 

He flinched when he felt sturdy yet warm hands attach themselves to his shirt, and he sucked in a hiccup of a breath and twisted his eyes shut in reaction to them. Hannibal simply assured him in a soft coo that he was not going to hurt him, he just needed to look at the damage.

 

Will really didn't want him to do that, but he knew better than to challenge or refuse a father, so he held his breath and turned his face away, his own hands coming up to the buttons of his flannel and clumsily undoing them, starting from the collar and working his way down.

 

Hannibal didn't say a word as he studied the ugly bruises on his throat and sternum. He didn't ask about the different coloration, didn't prod at the marks to see if they still hurt- which they did- he just stared. Will swallowed and grunted softly at the pain of using his throat for anything, let alone making noises or motions. He focused on an ugly painting on the wall; he just _really_ hated eye contact.

 

"He gave you CPR," Hannibal noted under his breath, Will unsure if he wanted him to reply or not, so he kept quiet.

 

Yeah, Jonathan always revived Will after he was enveloped by that sweet, taunting darkness that came after he stopped breathing. Sure it was painful, moreso in his lungs than in his throat, but the payoff was a few minutes of blissful silence. But as always, Will would awaken wheezing and coughing and sputtering in his father's arms as the man clutched him close, stroked his hair, rocked his body in his lap, and called him a " _good boy"._

Will wanted to gag at the disgusting memory, how good it felt to be held and fussed over, but really at being called something so humiliating.

 

Hannibal studied him for a moment longer, then let the boy button his shirt back up again with a deep, dark feeling of shame filling his empty belly, which gurgled and growled for something, _anything._  

 

"What is it you want, Will?" The elder asked.

 

Will gave a half-hearted snicker. "Hell if I know."

 

Hannibal patted his knee to offer support. "Do you want to hurt your father?"

 

Will glanced at him with a quizzical look. He wasn't sure what answer Hannibal wanted to hear. Yes, Will wanted to hurt him for everything he did to his mother and him, but as if he'd ever have the guts to actually do anything to the short philosopher.

 

He was apprehensive, but Will nodded shamefully and clasped his hands together.

 

He wasn't looking, but he felt the blonde's large hand cup the back of his neck. Lips were close to his ear, hushed whisper ghosting into it, the words causing his eyes to widen yet again, and he looked at the elder with an incredulous expression. No... surely he heard that wrong. He had to have.

 

"Are you serious?" He asked. Hannibal only nodded.


	6. Mini Chapter, The Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up on the end.

Jonathan had just finished his glass of whiskey when the bartender called for the last round before closing. He humoured the idea of grabbing one last drink before heading home but thought better of it; he didn't need to get tipsy and end up crashing his car. He paid the damn thing off just a few months ago so he wanted the vehicle to last.

 

He paid his tab and dusted off his suit before taking his keys from his pocket and exiting the bar. His car was parked at the other end of the lot and the walk was tedious, but when he arrived earlier that night there were no available parking spaces closer to the building. He unlocked and climbed into his car, ignited the engine, and pulled out of the lot to enter the midnight traffic and drive home. During the journey he listened to a Christian worship station and hummed the song that played every ten minutes or so.

 

While he drove he let his mind wander a little. Like any parent he found himself thinking about his son, specifically whether or not Will was going to eat within the next few days. How long has it been now? A week? Jonathan was pretty sure he remembered letting Will have a bowl of cereal. He could theoretically survive two more weeks, but Jonathan didn't need Will to be sent to the hospital after collapsing at school again. It was a headache to explain to the physicians that his son was "anorexic", throwing out stories of a messy divorce and a divided family and depression and that he'd be in touch with them if he felt Will needed therapy and medical treatment for his condition. It was all bullshit, of course- the boy would eat Jonathan out of house and home if he permitted it. And he lived for the thrill of holding another human being's life in his hands, a life that was his to mould and shape and destroy however he wanted. He created Will, he could demolish him, too.

 

The thoughts sent a ripple of excitement through the man. He smirked fondly to himself as he passed through the intersection that lead to his neighbourhood. He wasn't worried about coming home at almost one in the morning. His son was in bed like a good boy and would be awake at six for school, whereas Jonathan was planning to sleep in as long as he wished since he was on a three-day weekend from work.

 

He pulled into the driveway and parked his car before climbing out of it, stretching tiredly, and he locked the vehicle and headed for the door. He tried to turn the knob and was pleased to find it locked. Good. He turned his key in the doorknob and strolled into his house without care, hanging up his jacket and locking the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his belt, and made a beeline for the kitchen. What he found made his veins bulge and his blood boil.

 

He found Will, still dressed and missing his glasses, sitting on the kitchen counter and devouring what seemed to be a bowl of meat and potatoes. The boy had a glass of milk sitting beside him, as well as an opened sack of crackers.

 

Jonathan was almost speechless at this act of defiance and immediately patted himself down to locate the key to the fridge and pantry, but for once it was not in his right pants' pocket. Looking up again he saw it dangling around Will's neck.

 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" The shorter man sputtered out, livid.

 

Will flinched and looked up from his meal, eyes filled with what could only be shame, but his gaze flicked beside Jonathan's head for a split second before those orbs instead glistened with resentment, and he began to eat even more without saying a word, shovelling large bites of potatoes and steak into his mouth.

 

"Little bitch," Jonathan cursed, his fists balled, and he made a movement to cross the kitchen, to bring the hell on his disrespectful son, but he was thwarted when solid arms suddenly looped around his own and pulled him back against a tall and hard body. He tried to thrash and break free, yelling out for the perpetrator to let him go and for Will to help him, but his terrible boy just sat there, eating, watching, even  _smiling._

Jonathan's arms were painfully bent behind his back, rendering him immobilised, and one of the two hands wrapped around his throat and cocked his head to one side.

 

"Fuck you" was all he heard from his son, who spoke through a cheek full of food, and as soon as the words left his stuffed lips he felt a pinch in his neck, and within a few moments, everything faded to black.


	7. Coda

Hannibal was teeming with excitement. Young William was quickly growing more attached to him as he fed and cared for him, feeding the boy a tasty and nutritious soup that his gaunt body could digest easily and restore his ATP levels without incident. Will was apprehensive at first; he wanted to eat something more filling and heavy, but Hannibal didn't want him to get sick from overfeeding after extended periods of starvation.

 

When they arrived back at his home with their "special guest" in the back seat, the two men worked together in towing the short philosopher into Hannibal's house, not because Will wasn't strong enough to do it himself, but because occasionally their hands brushed while dragging the drugged up Jonathan over the threshold and down to the basement. Hannibal noticed the way Will stole glances at his face as they worked the ropes and binds. The boy was desperate for some kind of paternal affection and nursed from Hannibal's graciously.

 

Once Jonathan was confined to the chair and in no way able to go anywhere, Hannibal led Will back upstairs so that he could properly assess and treat his wounds.

 

They travelled to the master bedroom, Will quickly shaking off his hesitations, and the blonde asked him to remove his shirt, which he peeled off calmly, given their circumstances. Hannibal noted that the bruising was not limited to Will's chest; Jonathan had made a mess of his entire torso, arms, and neck, and he suspected there were more on his legs that his baggy jeans shielded from his view.

 

"I want you to rest for a while, William." Hannibal said softly as he slid a thick, expensive pillow under the boy's knees and the arch of his back. "I will be downstairs if you require anything."

 

The boy hummed in agreement and shifted his weight a bit to get comfortable, his head rested upon silky, shiny pillows, and when his eyes slid closed Hannibal greedily drank up the vision of Will's sleepy face, his battered body, the inclination of his head that allowed the elder to peek at his tender neck; Will was a beautiful specimen.

 

Hannibal lingered only a second or two longer than he ought before he turned off the light and quietly shut the door behind himself on his way out.

 

 

Jonathan awoke an hour before Will did. Hannibal was ever so thankful for sound-proofing technology; it would have been so tiresome and annoying to hear the man's pathetic screams for help while he was cleaning up his kitchen. The elder smirked as he scrubbed and wiped down his trusty cooking knives, proud of their gleam, their sharpness, and of course, their past uses.

 

Will came down from his nap with even messier hair than usual and a considerably improved mood. He smiled at Hannibal when he found him in the kitchen and even asked to help with the dishes. When Hannibal finished cleaning a tool, Will dried it with a fluffy towel and put it in its proper place. They worked in silence. Neither needed to say a word; they were perfectly content in the quiet and each other's company.

 

For a moment Hannibal was reminded of a domestic relationship, as if they definitely didn't have the boy's abusive father tied up in the basement and were biding their time until it was time to dispose of him.

 

"I want him to suffer," Will had said during the trip to Hannibal's dwelling, with his gaze fixated out the window. "He should wish he could die."

 

Hannibal had sensed a silent "like me" at the end of Will's confession, but he didn't pry. The boy was vulnerable and fragile. He'd have a setback if he tried to inquire too soon.

 

Once the dishes were finished the pair made their way back down to the basement. Will couldn't keep from fidgeting with his thumbs, pressing them together and bending them back and forth nervously. It was cute.

 

Jonathan was already wheezing from screaming his throat raw. His face was red, his bald head shiny with sweat, even as his body trembled from the crisp cool of the basement. He hissed when Hannibal hit the lights.

 

Once the vile man's vision adjusted and he saw the two of them standing there a yard or so away from him, Hannibal could tell the expression on his face was a mask; he didn't truly feel the confusion he was conveying, he knew what he had done. He knew what was going on. Jonathan wasn't daft, he was a professor, after all.

 

That didn't stop the short elder from scowling at Will, however. He was desperate for his authority.

 

"What do you want from me?" He growled.

 

Will was silent, the boy crossing his arms and gripping himself tightly, probably to keep himself together as emotions sparked, flared, and ignited within him, so Hannibal simply put his hands at his front and gave Jonathan a poker face.

 

"This is not about what I want, Mr. Graham." He gestured to Will. "This is about what William desires."

 

As if realising the gravity of the situation, Jonathan's face paled a bit, though he clenched his teeth and turned his steely gaze to his son. "Will?" He questioned.

 

The boy's breathing was deep and occasionally shaky on the inhale. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rubbed at his neck, averted his father's eyes. Hannibal was pleased, however- the walls were coming down, and when they completely fell, it would be a sight to behold. He was so elated to see his boy getting ready to bloom.

 

"...I fucking hate you," Will choked out, his eyes shut. "I hate you so fucking much, dad."

 

The room was quiet for a few moments before Will took in a louder breath and let it out slow. "Ever since mom died, you've been treating me like shit. You go out and get shitfaced, then come home at two in the morning, come into my room..." He hesitated, but glossed over it and continued. "I'm sick and fucking tired of it. You can't choke or starve or hit me anymore."

 

As he spoke, Will took the tool offered by Hannibal, the blonde unable to contain the grin that spread from ear to ear.

 

"You're gonna regret ever conceiving me, you sick fuck." Will spat, turning the tool over in his hands as he crossed the basement, trying to find a comfortable spot to grasp it. Jonathan was pleading by then, trying to convince his son not to hurt him, screaming that he was sorry, even that he  _loved him_ , but Will got closer, closer, his walls collapsing one by one, he crept nearer, nearer...

 

He heaved the tool over his head and analysed his father's face one last time. He basked in the pathetic worm's sputtering and pleading and apologies. They fuelled the deeply seeded anger and despair that the brunette felt eating away at his insides. If he swung home, it would alleviate the feelings of disgust and pain he felt. William chanted it in his ears,  _"everything will be okay",_  over and over again,  _"I just have to kill him."_

Just... kill him. Right. Yes. That was something he could do. He could kill him. Of course he could. It wasn't as though he hadn't fantasised about it, imagining his father as the victim of a horror movie where the clueless extras get tortured or left disfigured and on display for cheap scare tactics. Will had always wanted to know if the jugular truly had enough velocity to turn a decapitated neck stump into a fountain, or if it was all special effects bullshit.

 

Jonathan must have sensed his hesitation, because he started to speak softly.

 

"Will," his voice cracked, "son, please, you don't want to do this. I know you don't. I'm a shitty father, but you don't want to kill me."

 

Will's hands shook. The tool vibrated in his hands. His throat was winking and only allowing sips of air to pass to his lungs, causing his belly to convulse and a dark feeling of nausea to sweep his body, leaving a cold sweat in its wake. His lips were pursed so tightly he could taste copper on his tongue. He scowled and lifted the object again after it sunk down near his side, ready to swing, but again, his muscles disobeyed his angry brain and the tool shook violently in his white-knuckled grasp.

 

He didn't really know how long he stood there shaking like a leaf, but the world came dripping back when he felt a large and warm hand cup his cheek. He could smell roses.

 

Another hand was flat against his forehead, a thumb pulling his eyelids away to look at the whites of the rolled-back pools. His whole body was vibrating. He felt cold. He felt sick. He felt  _afraid._

The tool clattered against the stone floor as it dropped from his rigid hands.

 

"I can't," was all he could muster.


	8. Please Vote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow the link to a survey to vote on the ending to this story. Thank you.

Hey everyone. I've hit a writer's block with this work so I've decided to bring you guys, my beloved readers, in to help resolve it and bring this story to a close. Please vote on what you'd like for this work. I appreciate it so much, you're all so patient and kind, and I don't deserve any of you. Many blessings. -Cas

 

Update: It's only been a day and we've already surpassed the 100 reply limit. I'm not gonna pay 24 pounds a month for the rest so I'll use what I've collected so far. If you have any specific suggestions you want me to see, please comment them. Thank you all. Many blessings. -Cas 

<https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/KCLWNYC>


	9. Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... disturbing stuff ahead. A little update on me and my future writing; I started playing some new games between (real) chapters, mainly Fallout 4, Mass Effect Andromeda, and Dragon Age Inquisition. So I want to write for those and I have some stories in mind, so yeah. Themes will mostly be consistent among M/M pairings (because I'm gay), non-con and dark relationships (because of my own issues and traumas), and overall darker content (because I'm me).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has supported me through this work. Consider it a gift from me to you. Blessed Be. -Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes murder, mental instability, and manipulation.

Will was on the ground. His palms ached as he flattened them against the basement floor. His hands hurt, his knees, his chest, and his head. Everything hurt.

 

"What's the matter, William?" He heard a ghost say, a ghost that sounded close and yet many, many miles away. Will couldn't see anything but the blurry, fleshy pink of his hands as they swam with the grey of the stone ground.

 

"This... isn't what I want," he said with a choked gap between words, "I don't want this, I can't do it." It was true; he couldn't. How could he? He fantasised about it, yeah, but... that was entirely different from actually  _doing_ anything. Despite everything his father did to him, against all odds, he couldn't bring himself to...

 

He heard the rustle of fabric and the click-clack of heels on the floor. Something scraped across the cobble slabs, and suddenly there was a warm breeze on his hair. "Don't forget why we're here, William." The ghost cooed evenly, "We're doing this for your sake. You said it yourself, this man deserves whatever comes to him, yes?"

 

He only lifted his gaze when Jonathan's leg extended and his knee popped audibly, the limb reaching for him and only managing to brush his kneecap. His father looked much smaller than he remembered. Had he always been shorter than him? Less broad? Will's lip turned up in a pitiful humoured smirk and fresh tears bubbled up in his eyes. Had he truly been beaten and killed by this guy, many, many times? Whoa, Will, you really are a pussy, he thought to himself.

 

"Will, sweetheart," Jonathan started, "listen to me. You're not a monster; you don't want to hurt your dad. If you just let me go, we can call the police and everything will be okay."

 

The smudged brown loafer was stroking his knee, rubbing back and forth over the bony disk. Had it not been for Will's thrashed jeans the rubber sole would have pulled painfully against his skin and dark, spiral hairs.

 

Will pushed himself to his feet and stepped back once to avoid his father's touch, and he immediately clenched his eyes shut as a dizzy spell overtook him from the head down. He wobbled a little, but was stabilised by the ghost's hands clasping down on his shoulders. The hot breeze returned to lick his clammy neck. He trembled when he finally noticed the branch-like outlines protruding from where the ghost's head would be in the shadow on the wall.

 

The Stag inhaled before speaking. "William, you know that he just wants to save his own life. He doesn't care about you, your well-being, or your health. If he really cared, would he attempt to take you from this world every time you have a disagreement?"

 

"Stop," Will cracked, "Just... just stop, I can't-"

 

"Would he force you into the car and drive to your mother's grave, just to take you back to the mausoleum and wrap a noose around your neck?"

 

"How the hell... I don't!" Jonathan sputtered, interjecting. "I love my son, he's all I have!"

 

Will felt the nausea in his belly deepen with his father's words, and he clutched the fabric of his shirt with a white-knuckled grip and swallowed to try to keep his soup down. He couldn't stand hearing those words, from anybody, for any reason at all. It was the easiest of lies to tell, so buried by fake sentiments that most would fall for it at face-value. But Will knew the truth; he knew that  _"I love you"_  truly meant  _"I hope you die"._

"Will, please," Jonathan continued, his hysteria rising, "just let me go, okay? Let's go home, okay? You're not bad, I know you're not. Be a good boy and let me out of here."

 

_Good Boy._

Something sparked inside Will.

 

_"Good boy."_

Something dark. Something primal. Something deeply buried and suppressed.

 

_"Be a good boy and don't wake up."_

His heart was pounding in his ears. It was painful.

 

_"You're daddy's good boy, Will."_

He didn't know when the tool was placed in his hand, but suddenly he was grasping it as tightly as he possibly could. The Stag no longer held him.

 

"Shut up," he growled, the fat tears streaming down his cheeks forcefully. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!" His feet were feather-light as they carried him across the room.

 

The first swing was effortless. The second released a flood of pleasure through his body. The third was accompanied by a sickening crunch, the noise unexpectedly addictive as he kept swinging, from right to left, left to right, up and down, down and up, along the floor, hit after hit after hit after hit, a hot and wet substance caking his hands and splashing him in the face every so often. He wasn't in control of his muscles anymore. They continued to spasm and throw his arms in all manner of directions, until they rose above his head, and suddenly, he saw everything from a different perspective.

 

He saw himself, covered head-to-toe in bright red, a blunt object in his fists, and his eyes as wide as saucers.

 

Will backed up, the tool held in his right hand, and could only stare at what he had created. "...Did... did I..." He choked. The tool dropped again and rolled away from him. "I... wait, he's not... dead, is he?" 

 

The realisation sunk in slowly, and his fingers found themselves wound in his matted curls. "Oh my god... oh my god. I... I  _killed_ him." His knees gave out and he collapsed down onto them, releasing his hair to clutch the bloody trousers, his head bent between the corpse's shins. "He's... Oh god..." He couldn't hear anything aside from his own thunderous heartbeat and the drip-drip-drips.

 

"Dad... dad... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, don't be dead," He pleaded, "wake up, please, just wake up, don't be dead, don't, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" His volume rose, and eventually all he could do was scream, the sobs cutting through his breath until he could gasp an inhale and let it out at the top of his lungs again.

 

"I'm... I'm a good boy..." He croaked before falling into a fit of hysterical crying.


End file.
